


the color you see when he leaves

by kagome_angel



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: ALL THE EMOTIONS AND PSYCHOLOGICAL STUFF, Angst, Did I Mention Angst?, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, I Tried, M/M, Murder Husbands (Almost), Season/Series 02 Spoilers, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagome_angel/pseuds/kagome_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “What’s your favorite color?” Will asks, knowing full well that this sounds like one of those silly questions that you’d ask on a first date, but the whole purpose of this is to catch Hannibal off-guard, make him react.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Hannibal’s only response is a slight raise of one eyebrow and a smoothly spoken, “Red.”</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>“The color of your best wine?” Will assumes, smirking.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>“The color of healthy tissue,” the psychiatrist corrects, and Will narrows his gaze just a little more than he ought to, but otherwise does not react.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the color you see when he leaves

**Author's Note:**

> Sexy-times between Hannibal and Alana and Will and Margo mentioned. Brief allusion to Will/Alana. Several of the show's regulars are mentioned, but Hannibal and Will are the stars of this fic. I will probably never get over the end of season 02. I kid you not. Nothing will ever be okay again. Title is a sort-of shout-out to Tyler Ford's "Describing the color red without using the world 'red'."

“What’s your favorite color?” Will asks, knowing full well that this sounds like one of those silly questions that you’d ask on a first date, but the whole purpose of this is to catch Hannibal off-guard, make him react.

Hannibal’s only response is a slight raise of one eyebrow and a smoothly spoken, “Red.”

“The color of your best wine?” Will assumes, smirking.

“The color of healthy tissue,” the psychiatrist corrects, and Will narrows his gaze just a little more than he ought to, but otherwise does not react.

Hannibal notices all the same (of course he does), and it is only now that he smiles and stands, offering a glass of wine.  Will accepts.   

And it’s a cabernet.

~*~

He should be seeing red right now, and he is.  He has good reason, this anger is justifiable, just as the social worker’s death would be justifiable.

_"It feels good to do bad things to bad people,”_ he hears Hannibal’s voice both inside of his head and outside of it; funny how he’s become so wrapped around everything that this man is, almost laughable how he hears his words whether he’s here with him – which he is at the moment – or not.

He’s shaking as he points the gun at this despicable creature who has wronged an innocent man (seems to be the pattern around here lately, but then again, Will himself isn’t entirely innocent, is he?).  He’s shaking and his vision is full of red, red and brown (Hannibal’s gaze), and his pulse is loud in his ears.  The psychiatrist’s voice is calm and even, a counterpoint to how Will feels right now.

(Hannibal’s made several arguments that they are the same type of monster; that they balance each other out.  And in moments like this, Will almost loses himself and almost, _almost_  believes it.)

“It won’t feel the same, Will,” Hannibal tells him.  “It won’t feel like killing me.”

More anger, maybe a little defiance.  “It doesn’t have to,” he replies, voice raspy.  He knows that this is what Hannibal secretly wants, hopes for.  He wants him to transform, to become.  To be the killer that he thinks he sees.

(Will ignores the fact that maybe some small part of him wants this too.)

No, it wouldn’t feel like killing Hannibal.  Nothing else would give him that same twisted satisfaction.  Nothing else would give him that same illogical despair.  Nothing else would make him feel so alive and so utterly undone at the same time.

He doesn’t plan on killing this man, not really.  Part of him may want to, but he will not give in.  He only has to convince Hannibal that he has every intention of putting a bullet through Ingram’s brain.

The psychiatrist doesn’t call his bluff; he falls for his façade.  He takes the gun from him, touches his face, and deep blue meets even deeper brown.  There is a lull in the chaos. 

Hannibal’s gaze is full of pride, admiration, and awe in equal measure, and his touch is electric, sending a wave of heat down Will’s spine (whitehot, not red), and there is a knot of _something_  in Will’s belly which he fights to deny the existence of (and fails).

And for just one wavering, uncertain moment, Will forgets who is supposed to be the one doing the luring here.

~*~

He’d like to think that he calls Hannibal’s bluff when he pays the psychiatrist a visit after killing Randall; it had all been a set-up, and Hannibal had carefully moved chess pieces into place, though purposefully not carefully enough.  Will knows that the other man had not sent Randall to kill him, but had instead sent Randall to be killed  _by_ him. 

_Self-preservation and all that._

Hannibal has no intention of killing him, and he has no intention of killing Hannibal (he’s already told him as much), despite the fact that he still sometimes fantasizes about what it would feel like to have Hannibal’s hyoid bone and trachea shift beneath the pressure of his thumbs.

There are other thoughts that he has of Hannibal, too, no less darker, but of a different nature entirely.  These thoughts are heated, twisted, another kind of heated intimacy.  Completely and utterly irrational, but still very present, and becoming more and more difficult to ignore.  This isn’t part of his plan, but in this particular cat-and-mouse game, he’s come to realize that he isn’t the only one capable of seduction—mental or otherwise.

It makes things more interesting and immeasurably more complicated, to say the very least.

(“ _I don’t want to kill you anymore, Dr. Lecter.  Not now that I finally find you interesting._ ”)

He won’t kill him, but he will see that justice is served.  He has to. 

Hannibal isn’t surprised to see either him or the dead body that he’s brought with him, Will can tell.  This wasn’t an attempt at murder; this was a test, and he’s passed.  He knows this, Hannibal knows this, but Will plays it off, pretends not to know. 

“Even Steven,” Will proclaims, and Hannibal asks if he killed Randall with his hands. 

The blood is still fresh – a bright red – on his knuckles.  He does not have to answer, but he intones (admits, maybe):  “It was… intimate.”

There’s the merest glint of something akin to _want_  in Hannibal’s eyes as he steps close and takes Will’s bloodied hand in his own, holding it gently.  His touch surprisingly belies his true nature, and Will forces himself to look away. 

(If he gets too close, he knows he’ll burn, and that will be an altogether different sort of hell than any he has ever imagined.

He refuses to admit that he would perhaps enjoy the incineration.)

Hannibal cleans and carefully bandages his hand, and all of it is surprisingly easy, surprisingly _not_ as unnatural as it ought to be.  This could be his empathic nature hitting him at full force, or it could be part of him passively following Hannibal down the rabbit hole.  This could be acclimation.  It could be integration.

Together, they watch as the bloody water disappears down the drain.

~*~

 It’s wrong to do this with Margo, he knows.  It’s even more wrong to imagine that it’s Alana.

And to wonder what it would be like to (no doubt) be in Alana’s place right now, sharing this sort of contact with Hannibal, well… that is just the epitome of _wrongness_ , isn’t it?

He isn’t proud of it, not of any of it.  He sees Hannibal – the darkest side of him – when he closes his eyes, wonders what he looks like when he is lost in this dance of passion, wonders if he’s just going through the motions when he’s with Alana, much like Will is doing now with Margo.

That isn’t right, either. 

This isn’t love, though, is it?  Of course not.  This is simply two people, comparing scars and momentarily quelling the loneliness that will no doubt return the moment this is over.

(If he’s honest with himself – and these days it’s sure as hell a toss-up – the only time he doesn’t feel alone is when he is in Hannibal’s presence.)

He kisses Margo, imagines Alana, and pieces of him that he wishes he could permanently ignore long for Hannibal.

Tonight, he isn’t angry.  He doesn’t see red.

Tonight he is just another green-eyed monster.

~*~

Hannibal is pleased with him, with the meal that he’s brought to share.  It’s a farce, but Hannibal falls for it all the same, just as Will had hoped and planned (he’s good at this game, with the exception of the unneeded attraction that has developed, but then again… working around it – or within it – may prove to be beneficial). 

He’s made sure that he smells like Freddie; he wears her ‘fear’ like she would wear perfume, and there are still strands of her hair clinging to his clothing.

Hannibal would have killed her.  He was going to.  Will has beaten him to it—or at least, that’s what he’s made Hannibal believe.

He helps Hannibal prepare the meal; they work together in relative, comfortable silence.  Each time the psychiatrist’s gaze meets his, Will can see the pride in his eyes, and it makes the larger part of him proud, too.  He won’t let it show, of course.  He can’t let Hannibal see that particular satisfaction, given that it is there because he is succeeding in pulling the wool over the other man’s eyes.

However, the part that he _can_ let Hannibal see (can and should are not the same thing) is the other (smaller, but still very much present) part of him that is genuinely glad that he’s earned Hannibal’s pride.

(That same part of him quietly admits that the whole of him could get used to this.)

Over dinner, they discuss how the meat ‘isn’t pork’; they speak of good and evil and that grey area between.  The one that Will occupies. 

He tells Hannibal that he is destructive, and he is.  Hannibal is a hurricane, tearing through everyone and everything without compassion and without regard to any of the aftermath (but he does it all so very brilliantly, his brand of destruction is a very carefully-constructed one).

Hannibal argues that storms are merely acts of God, and asks of that is what tonight’s meal is.

Will doesn’t respond.  He takes another drink from his wine glass.  Hannibal smiles. 

Will savors it all.

~*~

He doesn’t kill Mason Verger.  Part of him wants to, just as part of him wants to lash out at Hannibal for divulging the news of Margo’s pregnancy.  Because of this, he’s lost a child (again), though this time before he’s even had the chance to know it.  A blessing and a curse.

Part of him is volatile, fierce, furious.  The other part of him surveys the mental and emotional state of his being with a quiet sort of curiosity, of wonderment.  He knows Hannibal played it out this way to garner a reaction from him, to put him in the mood to kill Mason. 

He’ll let Hannibal do the dirty work this time.

There is blood on Mason Verger’s nose.  On his lip. 

There will be so much more later.  He knows that Hannibal will make sure of it.

( _He_ will make sure of it.)

~*~

“You don’t want me to have anything in my life that’s not you.”  It isn’t an accusation, but a fact.  It isn’t angrily spoken, but calmly stated.

“I only want what’s best for you,” Hannibal responds, and there isn’t even the slightest hint of deception there.  Will knows that Hannibal genuinely believes that he _himself_ is what is best for Will.  Hannibal, and only Hannibal.

This codependent relationship that they have is built upon manipulation and murky truths.  It is the antithesis of healthy, but Will is lying to himself when he tries to convince the whole of him that none of this is right, that even with the cat-and-mouse game that they play aside, they’re no good for each other. 

The great and ugly truth is that they are _perfect_ for each other.  Maybe only part of Will is the monster that Hannibal wants him to be, and maybe he has that part of himself in check (maybe, maybe), but they serve to balance each other out.  Hannibal is Will’s ‘becoming’, but Will is also Hannibal’s. 

(This is the very reason why that small part of him feels _guilty_ ; guilty for what he’s doing, for what he will do to this man who now trusts him.)

“We are just alike,” Will murmurs, knowing that the statement is at least partially true.  “You’re as alone as I am, and… we’re both alone, without each other.”   

“I’m glad that you agree,” Hannibal tells him, and there’s just the smallest hint of a smile curving at the corners of his lips.  “I think this is cause for celebration.  I have an excellent Pinot noir that I would love for you to try.  It will pair beautifully with our meal as well.”

Will almost asks what they’re having, but doesn’t. 

He’d rather be surprised today.

~*~

Holding a knife to Hannibal’s neck is…exhilarating.  An unspoken threat of metal promising to draw blood.  It is only a threat, though.  He’s not here to hurt Hannibal.  He’s here to put on a show and make it _look_ as if he’s going to hurt Hannibal, but both of them know that he is here to rescue and assist, not to harm.   

(Doesn’t mean that the smaller part of him doesn’t imagine dragging that knife across Hannibal’s skin, which is also a perfect example of how unhealthy this relationship is, but he no longer has the luxury of time with Hannibal and therefore, he no longer tries to over-analyze every aspect of what they are together.)

He frees Hannibal and is knocked unconscious for his transgression against Mason Verger. 

When he awakens and heads back to his home, he finds that Hannibal has done his dirty work _here_.  Redredred stains the front of Mason’s shirt and part of Will’s living room floor.  The lower part of Mason’s face is missing—he is literally _feeding_ his face to Will’s dogs.

Perhaps, on some level, he should be shocked.  He isn’t.

Hannibal tries to coerce him into delivering the killing blow, into finishing what Hannibal himself has started, but Will declines.  He insists that Mason is Hannibal’s patient and Hannibal should do what is best for him. 

There is the crack of breaking bones, and the silence that follows is deafening.

~*~

Mason Verger doesn’t die.  Hannibal, formerly a skilled surgeon, knew how to tilt the head so as to only break bone.  The man will be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, and while he has suffered a loss at Hannibal’s hands, he has not suffered a death.

This secret is one that Hannibal purposefully crafted so that it could be shared between the three of them:  the offender, the accomplice, and the victim.  Mason won’t give them away because he has his own secrets to keep.

The fire is burning red-orange in the hearth as Will walks into Hannibal’s study, finding the other man at the desk, sketching.  He doesn’t ask—doesn’t want to interrupt, but Hannibal explains what he is drawing, and gives him a lesson in Greek mythology.  One that Will is already familiar with, but he listens all the same as Hannibal explains that what he has drawn is Achilles mourning the death of Patroclus.  Patroclus was Achilles’ dear friend, his comrade in arms; he made Achilles feel more whole.  Will can connect the dots here, and what Hannibal is saying (without saying it) makes his breath catch in his throat.

“He became Achilles on the field of war,” Will adds to Hannibal’s story.  “Died wearing his armor.”

“He did,” Hannibal agrees.  “Hiding and revealing identity is a constant theme throughout the Greek epics.”  
  
“As are battle-tested friendships,” Will points out.

Hannibal takes a breath, and Will isn’t imagining its shakiness.  “Achilles wished all Greeks would die so that he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone.  It took divine intervention to bring them down.”

Will swallows hard, hesitates.  It is apparent what Hannibal is trying to say.  His story, his comparisons leave no room for doubt.  Will wants to delve further into this, all of him does, and he knows he shouldn’t.  First thing is first, though.  He makes a mental bookmark of this moment, promises himself to return to it, but right now he has to address a different topic.

He tells Hannibal that they can’t keep doing this, that they’re going to get caught.  He persuades Hannibal to let Jack see him as he is, to let him see the truth.

Hannibal (surprisingly) easily agrees.

~*~

“Do you view me as the Patroclus to your Achilles?”

The question hangs in the air, and Hannibal fixes him with an even but slightly quizzical gaze.  “I thought we’d moved past my sketch.”

“There were other topics that had to be discussed,” Will explains.  “But it has been in the back of my mind.”

Hannibal tilts his head just so, and the words fall softly from his lips:  “You are… many things to me, Will Graham.  I do not think that a mere allusion to mythology can accurately describe everything that I feel you are.”  It is not enough, and yet it _is_. 

Something inside of Will snaps, or maybe it’s just the opposite that takes place.  Maybe this is simply something sliding smoothly into its proper place.  Either way, it spurs him to act, and he crosses the space between them without further consideration, without fear, and he presses his lips to Lecter’s.  The kiss is harsh, no finesse but all passion; he _needs_ this, and has needed it for longer than he cares to admit.

Hannibal allows it for a moment, but then he breaks away, but not because he doesn’t want it.  Will knows this, sees the matching heat in the other man’s eyes.  “What are you doing, Will?”

“What I want.”  Will presses closer, closing his eyes, brushing his cheek against Hannibal’s neck.  Just being this near to the older man makes him slightly dizzy.  Proximity is dangerous, he knows this.  This is neither wise nor good.  But it is raw, and it is real, and every piece of him (even the piece that wants to see Hannibal Lecter imprisoned for his crimes) wants this, wants as much as Hannibal will give (and even more).

“What _you_ want, or what _I_ want?” Hannibal retorts, and his hand is cradling the back of Will’s head now, fingers curling into his hair. 

Just _hearing_ that Hannibal wants this too makes him draw in a sharp breath.  His answering, “Both,” is practically a hiss.

There is a moment’s hesitation as Hannibal pulls back to look into his eyes.  “We cannot turn back from this, Will.”  It is a warning in and of itself.  “If you wish to continue from this point, I will not pause again.”

“I don’t want you to.”

It is a challenge—one that Hannibal answers by tugging at Will’s hair, drawing him in to crush their lips together once more.  Hannibal kisses him fiercely, almost brutally.  There is heat and wetness and the hint of teeth, and then Hannibal is tugging at his bottom lip and Will is groaning, clutching at the psychiatrist’s shirt and trying to give as good as he’s being given.

Hannibal’s hands are now wandering over his body, along his sides and back, and the clothing is too much between them, even their skin is too much, _too much separation_.

(And isn’t _that_ a very Hannibal-ish thought?)

Desire is coiling low and tight in Will’s belly; he is aching to be touched, wanting Hannibal’s hand on his bare cock, stroking him, bringing him to release.  He’s imagined it now more times than he can count, he’s come to the thought of it more times than he cares to try to remember.  At one point, his daydreams balanced on a knife’s edge—on one side, there was this sort of intimacy and on the other?  Him watching the life drain out of the other man’s eyes as he took it away.

Intimacies of a different nature.

They kiss and they touch and they clutch and they claw until Will’s lips are swollen and he is almost painfully hard.  They tear away from each other only to come back together again, and this time Will’s mouth is on Hannibal’s neck, tongue laving, lips applying the slightest bit of suction.

 Hannibal groans and it is music to Will’s ears.

They undress each other quickly (including the brief detours that their hands and mouths make), and Will half-expects Hannibal to pick up each article of clothing and fold it all properly, but he doesn’t.  He leaves it all there, and Will explores Hannibal’s chest with his fingertips and – very lightly – his nails.  The fact that Hannibal shivers slightly beneath his touch sends a thrill through him and makes him forget to draw breath for just a moment.

When he does remember to breathe, he says, “I’ve never done this with another man before,” and it sounds silly and childish to his own ears.

Hannibal kisses him again, softly and briefly.  He trails his lips down, along Will’s jaw, then the column of his throat.  He pauses at one of the pulse points in Will’s neck; it is now beating a staccato rhythm, and for just one millisecond, Will imagines a wolf tearing out the throat of its victim.

But Hannibal Lecter is not Randall Tier, and while there is the press of teeth, it isn’t threatening.  It only makes Will moan and tilt his head back, offering more skin.  Hannibal laps at that pulse point, and then kisses his way back upwards until his lips are against Will’s once more. 

“Do not worry,” he murmurs.  “Come with me into the bedroom.  I know what to do.”

Does he ever.

Before Hannibal, Will had never thought of the possibility of having sex with another man.  Before Hannibal, he’d never desired to have sex with another man.  But now… now, he just wants to own and to be owned.  Tonight is not about outsmarting Hannibal or Hannibal tricking him.  Tonight is about equals, and Will intends to give and _give_ , but he will also _take_.

Hannibal’s hand is so very warm when it circles his prick and begins to stroke slowly, teasingly.  The fingers of the psychiatrist’s other hand are slick when they press carefully against Will’s opening, gently teasing, getting him used to merely the idea of entry.

Never in a million years had Will considered that he’d ever want something like this, and yet here he is now, pressing up into the touch of Hannibal’s hand and then pushing down experimentally against his fingers. 

It isn’t an unpleasant sensation, having those fingers slowly push inside and stretch the tight ring of muscle a little at a time.  Hannibal spends several long moments here like this, rubbing Will’s cock with his left hand and languidly fucking him with the first two fingers of his right hand.  Will is caught between the sensations, every muscle in his body tightening and then relaxing only to tighten again.  Hannibal is watching him raptly, and Will almost wants to hide his eyes from the scrutiny, but he doesn’t.  He holds Hannibal’s gaze and bites his lip when the other man’s thumb brushes over the head of his cock, smearing pre-cum.

“Let me--” he starts, but then stops, interrupting himself with a keen when he watches Hannibal lick the pre-cum from his thumb.  Giving up on articulation, he motions for Hannibal to come closer, and the other man does after a moment’s pause.  Hannibal has to withdraw his fingers, and Will misses the feel of them; it isn’t that he wants Hannibal to stop.  He simply wants—

Hannibal leans down to kiss him, and that isn’t what Will wants either, but he takes it.  He takes it with greedy hands that pull the other man closer, and he takes it with an all-too-eager tongue that slides wetly against Hannibal’s.  When he finally draws back, he shakes his head.  “Put your hips near my face.”  Maybe it is a command or a plea or both.  Right now it doesn’t matter.  All that matters is the result.

Hannibal’s lashes go to half-mast and Will licks at his lips, waiting impatiently as Hannibal maneuvers into a position that will be at least somewhat comfortable for the both of them.  Briefly, Will considers exactly what it is that he’s doing; he’s pretty sure he isn’t homosexual, and he’s never wanted to suck on another man’s cock.  He’s never even imagined it, until Hannibal.

(It seems the psychiatrist is both the problem and all of the possible answers.)

Will leans in, lips parted.  His tongue touches the soft skin first, and it is slightly salty, and smells entirely of _Hannibal_.  He takes just the head in at first, pressing his tongue down and dragging it carefully, experimentally, along the sensitive underside of the head, making Hannibal shudder and moan and _god_  if it isn’t the most beautiful sound he’s ever had the pleasure of hearing.

He takes Hannibal in slowly, until he comes to a point where he nearly gags, and it is then that he draws back slightly, and begins a lazy back and forth motion, swirling his tongue when he can, loving the way Hannibal’s prick throbs between his lips. 

He could develop an addiction to this, to pleasuring Hannibal, to using Hannibal to gain pleasure for himself. 

The psychiatrist doesn’t let him stay here for long.  Within moments, he is gently urging Will to settle back against the mattress and pillows once more.  His words are slightly strained when he speaks, which makes Will feel just a little smug:  “Do not distract me again, Will.  I have only begun with you.”

Such dark promise in those words, and it sends molten heat all through Will’s arteries, straight to his aching member. 

More movement, more lubricant, and then Hannibal’s fingers are inside of him again, thrusting not-so-carefully this time.  Eventually, Hannibal twists his wrist and curls his fingers, and when they brush against Will’s prostate, Will releases a noise that is somewhere between a whimper and a sob.  Hannibal repeats the motion again and again, and adds another finger. 

It all seems so surreal in some way—here he is, allowing a serial killer to see him like this, open and vulnerable and very _real_.  Every bit of this is Will Graham, manipulations aside.  This moment is for them, not for his pursuit of justice, and not for Hannibal’s attempts to seduce him entirely to his side.

More movement.  The withdrawing of fingers for a second time, the settling of Hannibal’s body between Will’s spread legs, the pressing of the blunt head of Hannibal’s cock against the place where his fingers had just been.  A slight burn accompanies the stretching sensation, and Will clutches first at the sheets, and then as Hannibal draws back and _shoves_ in, his hands immediately transfer to the other man’s shoulders and he holds on tightly, making crescent-shaped marks on Hannibal’s skin.

Hannibal’s thrusts are fast and hard, and it’s half-pain and half-pleasure and _entirely_ what Will needs.  Distantly, as if he is underwater, he hears these quiet, breathless moans and he realizes that it is he himself making these sounds.  But Hannibal is right there with him, grunting, groaning, eyes half-closed and body moving exquisitely.  It’s never been like this for Will before, both for obvious and for not-so-obvious reasons.  He’s never felt this sort of _connection_  and it is the _most_ fucked-up shit that he’s ever experienced in his whole life. 

Hannibal slips a hand between them, grasping Will’s cock, pumping in time with the motion of their hips.  The nails of his other hand bite painfully into the skin over Will’s hipbone, but Will doesn’t protest.  He arches into it all, watching and feeling and wanting, muscles tensing almost uncomfortably as Hannibal pushes him closer and closer to orgasm.

“Will,” Hannibal says, accent thick and heavy, and that’s it.  That is all it takes.  Will is gone, body growing taught as he ejaculates on himself and on Hannibal’s hand.  And then he’s limp and weak, arms linking loosely around the back of the psychiatrist’s neck and drawing him down to him so that he can kiss him roughly.  It skews Hannibal’s rhythm, but Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind much. 

The other man begins moving again, faster, harder, and it makes Will ache a little but he isn’t about to tell Hannibal to slow down, much less stop.  Hannibal leans in, bracing himself with surprisingly strong arms, face pressed against Will’s skin, and Will clings to him, arms and legs wrapping around him, pulling him as close as possible and holding on as Hannibal’s orgasm hits.

He is dimly aware of a dull pain somewhere in the general vicinity of his shoulder, but it doesn’t matter, it isn’t important. 

They stay like this for several seconds, catching their breath and allowing the rest of the world to catch up with them.  Hannibal moves first, carefully disengaging his limbs from Will’s, gently pulling out of him.  They head into the bathroom together, and Will decides that he wants Hannibal to join him in the shower.

Such domesticity.  It isn’t remotely appropriate, but in this moment, Will does not rightly care.

He feels that stinging pain again, touches the space between his neck and his left shoulder, and cringes slightly. 

“I drew blood,” Hannibal explains.  He does not apologize.  He does not have to.

“I wasn’t aware that I was on the menu tonight,” Will says teasingly, chuckling.  For the moment, his entire body feels impossibly light.  Even his mind, which is usually heavy and very, very loud.

There is a brief hesitation while Hannibal no doubt considers Will’s words.  And then:  “There are many different appetites.  And you are certainly meant to be devoured.”

_Something_  passes between them and Will leans up to press a kiss to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth.  “Careful,” he warns.  “I may devour you as well.”

He is rewarded with a rare smile that reaches Hannibal’s eyes.  “That is the point.”

~*~

“We could disappear now, tonight,” Hannibal offers.  A win-win situation, an _ideal_ situation, both for him and for the person that he believes Will has become.

(He _has_ become something different; Hannibal has changed him.)

The suggestion is tempting; it appeals to that part of him that wants to ride this out, see all the places Hannibal can take him, and all the places that he can take Hannibal in turn.  That sick, dark, twisted part of him wants to say yes.  If he were to say yes, it would be less messy.  Nothing would have to happen to Jack; he and Hannibal could start over, recreate their lives, maybe do this a little more properly.

(But there is no ‘proper’ way to do _this_.)

Wishful thinking, and Will is a smart man.  He knows what has to happen, and so he declines the offer, insisting that Jack needs to see them as they are now.  They owe it to him.

Hannibal doesn’t seem happy about it, but he backs down, no more offers to throw it all away tonight and get the hell out. 

The only offer he makes after dinner is to take Will into the bedroom, and how can Will refuse?  He can’t, he doesn’t.  He should, he knows.  Having sex with Hannibal now will only make all of this a thousand times messier than it has to be. 

Even knowing this, he doesn’t say no.

Hannibal rides him unhurriedly, rolling his hips, finding new and different ways to make Will moan and writhe and go utterly, pleasantly insane.  He takes his time, and so does Will.  He lets his hands roam over Hannibal’s body, half in reverence, half in apology.  He is gentle—both of them are, and it is as if they have all the time in the world, even though Will knows that they don’t.  The knowledge is slip-sliding into his nostrils, his mouth, and he has no choice but to inhale.  Down his throat it slides, past his trachea and into his lungs, his alveoli.  There it sits like hemoglobin, ready to spread to the rest of his body, but this knowledge doesn’t provide him with fresh oxygen.  It is drowning him.

_Tick-tock, tick-tock_.

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs, and Will remembers to breathe (not that it helps).  “I am right here.”  Hannibal touches him too, one hand pressing against his cheek, tender and real and (almost) succeeding in grounding him in this moment. 

“I know,” Will replies hoarsely.  “I know.”

Hannibal’s gaze is almost _wistful_ , but then those dark eyes are closing and his body is moving faster, and Will matches his pace.  In the back of his mind, he can’t help but wonder which of them is in control of this particular scenario.  Perhaps neither of them are.

The bed sheets are red and Will thinks there may be some meaning to it, some reasoning, but then he figures he’s probably reading too much into it.  And then none of it matters because his eyes slam shut as his orgasm shakes through him.  There is darkness behind his eyelids and then exploding constellations, and then Hannibal is coming too—he can feel the hot, liquid spurts of semen on his chest and abdomen. 

When he finally opens his eyes, he’s still struggling to breathe normally (it feels like he’s inhaling glass).  Hannibal’s breathing has evened out, and the look in his eyes is unreadable.  Will sits up and kisses him deeply and thoroughly, wondering if Hannibal can taste the regret and the penance on his tongue.

This isn’t sustainable either, he knows.  They are falling apart even as they are here together like this.  They are falling apart and Will desperately wants to pick the pieces up, rearrange them, put them in places so they’ll fit _right_ , but the truth is that they never will.  At least, not in a way that the whole of him will allow.

So he wraps his arms around Hannibal and holds on tight.  Maybe if he holds on tightly enough, he can hold all the shattered pieces in place for a little longer, and he can prevent further crumbling.

_Wishful thinking...._

~*~

Nothing is going according to plan.

Headlights and then brake lights in front of his house—blinding white and then warning-red. 

Alana has told him all that he needs to know; he hangs up and calls Hannibal even though he doesn’t have to.  He doesn’t have to tell him, but he does.

“They know,” he says, and the line goes dead.

He’s giving Hannibal the chance to run.  He’s giving Jack the chance to walk away unwounded.  He doesn’t know which of these he wants more—for Hannibal to get away or for Jack to remain unscathed.

He doesn’t know… and maybe that says it all.

He can’t stay here; he has to move, to act. 

So he does.

~*~

Everything falls apart right before his eyes.  He falls apart too, but Hannibal is there to catch him.

And here they are, touching, holding, shaking—two shattered halves of a whole. 

Irreparable damage has been done, and Hannibal is tying up loose ends.  His forgiveness is as brutal as his retribution, they are one and the same, one indiscernible from the other.

Will doesn’t feel forgiven, but perhaps he shouldn’t.

Everything is a blur and simultaneously slow-moving.  Will is slumped on the floor now and Hannibal is telling him to close his eyes, Hannibal is setting him free, and isn’t that what you do when you love someone?

He’s aware of the fact that he is slipping into shock and he may be delusional.  Hannibal leaves, and he scrambles to apply pressure to Abigail’s wound, but the blood just keeps coming.  He is bleeding out and so is she, and his atonement and forgiveness come in gushes and stain the floor crimson, which is fitting, he supposes.

Hannibal always was fond of red, wasn’t he?

 

 

~END~


End file.
